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My buddy Jeff and I were in the first few weeks of our trip traveling through Colombia. We pulled into a sleepy little fishing village of Palomino Colombia, further along the Caribbean coast, and past the popular backpacking stop of Parque Tayrona, in the dark of night. We grabbed a bite to eat at a small roadside restaurant where a man was shouting biblical sermons to an uninterested audience.
Tired of the unwelcome mass and stomachs full of chicken and rice we found two motorcycle taxis that would take us to a beach-side campground.
We fishtailed through the loose, dry sand and nearly careened into palm trees on numerous occasions before arriving to a deserted campground–calling it a campground might be a stretch, it was someone’s shack beside the beach where they had an outhouse and allowed people to camp.
We set up our tent by headlamp and wandered down the pitch black beach to the crashing sound of waves and the chirps of bats flying overhead. A few cervezas at the little beach-side shack and we wandered back to our tent.
Daylight comes early in the tropics.
Digging through our packs the next day to make coffee we overturned our bags and discovered that scorpions also call this area home. We certainly weren’t in Seattle anymore.
A strange, shirtless Colombian man with a rotund belly, a big black eye patch, and long, slicked back gray hair wandered around our campground gathering fruit. Our camp host from the night before was nowhere to be seen.
We wandered back into town–another stretch of the imagination, it was a couple little beach side hotels and restaurants–and found out that we could float the Rio Palomino by inner-tube for just a few dollars along the mototaxi ride.
We road on the back of the motorcycles clutching these giant inner tubes as we made our way up into the hills above town and deeper into the jungle.
With our little Spanish the drivers told us to just hike up over the hill and eventually we’ll come to the river. Here we were in swimwear, a bottle of water each, and flip flops hiking through the Colombian jungle in search of some river.
Despite continuing on for what felt too far and elevation gain that felt too high–we made it to the river.
For the next three hours we floated down the lazy river thick with the sounds of tropical birds and the lush vegetation of the jungle.
It was an idyllic and amazing experience.
The river grew wider, shallower, and slower as we approached the ocean.
Eventually we could smell the salt water, and could hear the crash of the waves.
We had made it back.
The day was capped off with more cervezas at the beach-side bar.
Wandering back to our camp-side we ran into the still shirtless Colombian with the eye-patch that we saw earlier, this time hanging out at his fire pit along the ocean.
We invited ourselves to join him.
“What’s your name?” I asked him.
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“They call me the pirate” he responded.
A fitting name, to be sure, given the eye patch.
We hung out for a few hours chatting about constellations, Colombian women, and the simple things in life.
Every once in a while he would ask to borrow one of our headlamps to run up to the tree line to grab some more coconuts to throw on the fire.
I had no idea coconuts were such great sources of fuel.
Still, to this day, it is one of my favorite stories and 24-hours in Colombia. It was a strange, surreal day where everything just kind of came together.
That’s to say nothing of the incident with Golpi, a crazy cat who had followed us back to camp one night.
He would meow non-stop and always acted like he wanted something, but we could never be sure. He made a few strange maneuvers toward me when I was trying to pet him.
Soon thereafter Jeff was leaning down to pet him and I told him to be careful.
Golpi took a calculated leap and bit him in the little fold of skin between the thumb and forefinger, instantly drawing blood.
Golpi was no longer welcome in camp.
The next day we were both slightly preoccupied with the possibility of contracting rabies or some other communicable disease from a cat bite…
We had to put the thought out of our head for the time being as we were at least three hours away from any real medical service.
The next night we were at our favorite beach side bar, and using Google Translate on my phone I managed to string together enough words to ask the bartender whether there should be any concern about a cat bite.
He told us no, that there had never been any problems with rabies or cat bites in the area that he knew of.
Strangely, not more than five minutes later, the culprit cat came scurrying onto the beach.
I shouted out to the bartender to “Look out, that was the cat that bit him!”
The bartender just laughed and said “Who? Golpi? No, he’s a good cat, no problem.” As he picked him up and started petting him
Strange days in a strange place, for sure.
Colombia Travel Guide
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